


The Truth is in the Ivory

by ghosty



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Classical Music, Dorks in Love, F/M, Piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty/pseuds/ghosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to fall in love in a piano shop.</p><p>It is a crisp autumn day downtown when he discovers that she plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asteriskos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteriskos/gifts).



> i'm not even sure what conversation devin and i were having, but it ended with "I DARE YOU" and now here we are. i originally wanted this to be multi-chaptered, but... well, it still might be! maybe one day.
> 
> as usual, a FST to listen along with: [here!](http://8tracks.com/ghostyyy/ivory)
> 
> (p.s. i know literally nothing about piano. i am so sorry.)

She's playing Nocturne in C minor the very first day he sees her. Every note is patient and careful, each keystroke precise. She's leaned over only very slightly, her back a beautiful arch that carries much poise and it looks strange to see it topped off by an off-white hoodie, but little strands of hair, escaping her messy ballerina bun fall in her eyes. Eyes that look through the piano, into nothingness. She's reading music that's invisible to everyone but her.

A man looms over her. Blonde, too. His brow is stern and expression incomprehensible, much like hers. They both look too serious to not be related. Armin can't remember where he was supposed to be going, but Mikasa's calls his name gently and he realizes he's standing outside the piano shop looking like a moron, staring at the girl who is playing Chopin like she's the one who wrote it, and it takes everything in him to pull himself away.

 

Annie looks up to the storefront windows when the piece is finished, certain that she felt eyes on her. Her father brings the ruler down hard -- a sharp, stinging scald to the back of her hand -- and she doesn't even wince as she sees a flash of gold disappear from the glass.

\---

Of course he can't help himself. He makes an excuse about errands, or meeting with friends, or something, and his grandfather waves him off as he slides out the door wearing his favourite shirt and shiniest shoes and he books it. He nearly tumbles getting onto his bike, and his palms sweat like crazy and his heart is racing, but he makes it there and parks outside, panting and trembling and she's playing Intermezzo in Eb.

For the first few minutes, he stands there like a fool again, the fibers of his too-old cardigan catching on the clean red bricks of the building. The piano shop is fairly new, the name _Gendarmery_ in scrawling gold cursive and the windows looking resplendent, probably polished every morning. Her playing is beautiful and steady, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when the door opens with the ring of a tiny bell, and a couple exits, smiling as they discuss prices, and the sound of her playing is no longer muffled, only clear and crisp and real. He considers sliding in before the door closes, so he can look at the pianist girl again and her intimidating mentor, but he debates too long in his own head and the door shuts without a sound.

He didn't really plan this out, did he? There's people walking by the shop, minding their own business unlike him, who has twitchy palms and a bad case of warm ears and nervous eyes.

His fingernails drift against the brick. Maybe he'll just go in. Pretend to browse. Listen instead.

He pulls away from the wall and his shoes scuff on the concrete, and he takes one step, and instead is left peering through the window, completely unable to make himself enter the building.

That's okay, though. Her song ends softly, and the world is then too quiet. Armin can't remember the last time he felt so strongly about piano, not since he quit when he was younger out of frustration, but it doesn't mean he never stopped dreaming of the music. Doesn't mean he can't appreciate how beautifully the girl inside plays. He wanders back to the wall, resting his back to it, sighing in defeat.

The bell signals someone exiting again. He wishes she'd play more, but his heart stops in his chest when a powerful figure walks by him, blonde and piercing eyes and a look that could gut your insides with no effort at all. Armin makes momentary eye contact with probably one of the most intimidating-looking men he's ever seen, who looks back at him with an unreadable expression, and then continues on his way.

Armin releases a breath he doesn't realize he was holding.

The door opens for a third time.

"You."

It's the first word he ever hears her say. Her voice is low and austere and pretty -- the type of voice you'd hear on a phone sex line if the girl on the line was completely fed up with you. She seems to already be at that point.

Armin realizes he's standing there, gaping at her like a dead fish with his lips parted and his eyes wide, just drinking her in and not saying a word. She's shorter than him! She looks like she could throttle him to death and walk away unscathed, she looks like a million bucks, her fingers are trim and she's lean herself, and her hair is in the same old, simple, careless bun from yesterday that makes her face stand out clearly. She's wearing the same white hoodie, and her nose is so absurdly Roman he feels his eyebrows perk, and her mouth is pursed but light and rosy, her skin is smooth, and finally, _finally_ , Armin Arlert looks into the wary eyes of the girl who plays Chopin and sees nothing but the seas that had been hidden away by God.

His heart is somewhere in his throat when she looks angrier, and repeats, "I'm talking to you." And Armin feels a little sick.

"Hello," he warbles, almost smiling at her, instead looking incredibly alarmed and pleased. "I'm Armin. I'm sorry. You play so beautifully."

She stares blankly at him. Her mouth parts, as if she's going to reply, but she can't seem to -- instead, she blinks, completely at a loss for words. The tenseness seems to have gone out of her brow though, at least, so she looks less stern than before.

Armin thinks his ears are hot and awkwardly pats his stringy hair down over them to hide his blush, all while trying to plaster on a convincing smile. "Um, it's nice to meet you. The way you played Nocturne was just... perfect, actually. Chopin can be difficult, too, to catch just right, but you..." Armin can't hide the honesty in his voice, the way he got quiet and said it like he was explaining her music to the angels at the gates. "...You got it."

The pianist stands before him, still and still staring, utterly stunned. But Armin sees her shifting under her skin, the mercurial tendency of her eyes softening and her shoulders relaxing, her fingers drifting into little fists that she presses against her jeans. Her lashes are so long, and the breeze carries some leaves that miss them by inches and gust her loose strands of hair into her face, which she sweeps away, finally looking down at the sidewalk.

"Thank you," she whispers. All of the vitriol in her voice has vanished, though she still feels reserved to Armin. That's completely okay though. Because she's talking to him, and she doesn't seem so bitter anymore. "I'm Annie."

There is overwhelming reverence in his voice as Armin says with the utmost seriousness, "It's nice to meet you, Annie." And holds out his hand, gentle and unthreatening.

Annie looks back up, and she seems flustered underneath her quiet exterior, but she sees his hand and awkwardly reaches out to take it in her own.

 

That night, when Armin lays in bed with his arms spread and the starlight spilling in past the cracks in the curtains his grandmother made, he remembers in exact detail the softness of her palms; the temperature of her hand; the silent strength of her grip; the merciless current of electricity that ran from where they touched, straight to his chest, simmering.

He wonders, heart still pounding in his ears, if she had felt it, too.

 

"You can come in, if you'd like," she says after a moment, gazing off into the streets where people are browsing. The location is in the pleasant section of downtown, where the buildings are close and have hanging wooden signs out front, little trees speckle the sidewalks beside benches and cafe tables. The streets are a crisp and dark brick, and the shoppes are all warm and inviting -- coffee, pastries, books, boutiques, toys, lunch, dinner, yoga. It's a cool and distinctly autumn day, and people comfortably line the streets, chatty and carefree.

Certainly, it must be too good to be true. But Annie has plucked up the courage to look him in the eye again, if only she knew how it made his insides twist, and he pushes hard on his knuckle til it hurts so he won't blurt out YES.

Instead, Armin says carefully, "Are you sure?" Maybe it could be taken as _are you sure I'm allowed to come in?_ but she seemed sharp so he guessed she'd pick out the real reason (are you sure you _want_ me to?).

She vaguely smiled, said, "Yes." And Armin followed her into Gendarmary.

\---

A lot of memories came back when he stepped in. He couldn't even hear the bell ring, his senses were so overwhelmed by the scent of the fresh, polished wood in glossy ebony and pearl, trimmed with gold or silver or modest red. The benches all looked too new to be comfortable, and in the corner, where the AC ran, pages of musical sheets fluttered gently in the draft.

"My father owns this place," Annie said after a moment, filling the quiet of the empty shop. He instinctually followed her, feet moving automatically while his eyes drank in the room. "My family's owned it for some generations, so I'm supposed to either inherit it or become a real pianist."

That struck Armin from his daze.

"Real pianist?" he parroted. His brow furrowed in confusion. "How do you mean?"

Annie made it to the front counter, where he saw a folded apron in subdued green that she shook open, sliding it in over her head with familiarity. The shop's name was scrawled across in the same golden font as it did on the sign, though faded and cracked with age.

"Professional." She tied the apron cleanly in the back.

"But... you play at a professional level already. Anyone with half their hearing could be able to discern it. You could easily be a concert pianist--!"

"Armin."

Armin halted.

"I appreciate that. But you're wrong. You don't know me, and you don't know piano."

She was right. Armin watched Annie roll her neck, eyes closed like she didn't want anybody to see them rather than the other way around. She tugged her hoodie down comfortably, scooped a few stray hairs out of the back of the apron string, and then tucked her hands protectively into her front pockets. And she was right. Armin suddenly felt very far away from the girl who stood mere feet in front of him, impenetrable glass walls all around her. It followed with a feeling -- more so a desire, compulsion -- to never have to feel that way again. But he didn't want to break the walls. He didn't want to shatter what she had obviously built for herself carefully and intricately.

No; he wanted her to come out instead.

"I'd like to know," he admitted quietly.

Annie's eyes opened. She looked at him, and maybe it was a moment too soon, because Armin saw the full intensity of the roiling conflict of vulnerability in her eyes. Then it was gone. Vanished, just like that. Annie didn't answer him, just wet her lips and offered a brief half-hearted smile, before turning and heading towards the piano he'd seen her playing at. In the entire room, from his glance-over, it appeared to be the only one with a bench that looked worn and was the most inviting. The keys were less shiny than the others, dulled with her (?) touch, but it was kept clean and in marvelous condition.

"Do you play at all?" she asked, sitting down at it and running a fingertip down the keys.

"Truthfully? Ah... I used to take lessons, but I quit. I wasn't patient enough as a little kid. I still listen, though."

Annie ran her fingers up and down, pressing and playing a few scales with no effort. "That so." It turned into light playing, tapping some notes in succession to make a vague melody. "You don't seem like someone who'd be terribly impatient."

Armin grimaced. "I could memorize the songs well... Just, when it came to playing them, my fingers would fumble a lot. Messing with eighty-eight keys in quick succession was a bit overwhelming as a kid."

Annie's song seemed to grow in complexity, and he wondered if this was her way of mocking him. Her back was straight, but there was the smallest increments of her head nodding in time with the measure.

"A lot of people underestimate the physical tenacity that's required," she commented levelly. "Posture. Hand positioning. Muscle memory training."

"And I'm not really good at that stuff in the first place..."

He thinks he caught her rolling her eyes. Her music is definitely a song, something she slowly transformed -- it's oddly familiar, a Satie piece he can't remember the name of. But he doesn't want to say it and be wrong.

 

The melody is haunting, secretive.  
It talks about a mystery, of a thousand spiral staircases and walls of tomes and old paintings that have only seen late afternoon light and candles for centuries.  
Someone wandering through the labyrinth, on tiptoes, dust gathering on their heels with every step.  
There are cobwebs and echoes, where every corner speaks to you, invites you in --  
But the staircases are long and tempting, and you can never bring yourself to stop.

 

When the song comes to an end, Armin blinks, not realizing he had even spaced out. The daydream had been vividly real, and he had to make real effort to turn his attention back to Annie.

She was tucking hair behind her ear, and her hands were back in her pockets, absentminded.

"That was so good," he breathed out as if he couldn't believe it.

Annie looked away, seemingly holding back a happier reaction. "Thanks. Do you know Satie?"

Satie! Thank the stars. "Yeah, that's who I thought it was. I can't remember the name, though..."

"That was Gnossienne no. 1."

"Ahhh, that's it. Do you like Satie?"

Annie finally let a small smile come through. "Yeah." Was all she said.

For a moment, while their conversation subsided, Armin considered sitting down, too, but didn't think it prudent to sit on ~~her~~ store property. There was the bench she sat on, of course, but... he assumed that was too intimate for their budding acquaintanceship... Relationship? Could he use that word? Armin's heart stumbled for a moment, and there were flashes of sitting on that bench with her, and her smiling without holding back, and the blistering memory of her hand brushing against his skin, and for a split second Armin Arlert thought he might faint.

"You might have to go in a minute."

Annie rose gracefully from the bench, still gazing at the floor. She scuffed the toe of her Converse against the dark green carpet, and didn't make eye contact.

For a moment, panic filled him. Did he say or do something wrong? Was she offended? Had he failed the trial so soon? A voice in his head said _no_ over and over and over, but he knew that if she didn't want him to come back ever again, he would have to respect her decision, because Annie was Annie and screw it if he'd known her for barely a few minutes, it felt like he'd known her from Eden. He knew that she was good, he could see it in every tiny twitch of her mouth and every hue in her eyes.

So Armin said, "Okay. Thank you for inviting me in. I'll..." See you later? He felt his gaze turn crestfallen and looked away, too, because he didn't want to be so obvious. "It was nice meeting you."

And Annie looked up, almost sad. He could only begin to imagine how much time she'd spent perfecting that stoic facade.

"You can come back tomorrow, if you want," she said, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. She glanced at the door, and her shoe kept swaying back and forth over the carpet, and Armin felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

"I will," he beamed. "Thank you. Have a good day, Annie!"

The blond girl -- the not-real pianist -- half-smiled, and waved a little, remaining where she stood as he reluctantly (but filled with new anticipation for the morrow) walked to the door.

"Bye."

The bell jingled. The door closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally got around to proofreading this chapter (albeit belatedly), but HERE IT IS. i am very fond of this chapter. i am very fond of armin and annie. i am excited to keep writing this, frankly.

"Annie, this is unacceptable. These errors are trivial. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just not feeling well."

A deep sigh. Shirt fabric shifting as his hand lifted to his head, rubbing his temples.

"Go home, then. We'll resume tomorrow when you can function."

“No. I can do it. Give me just a moment.”

He went quiet, and she gently pressed her fingertips to her knit brow, shutting her eyes and sighing.

Maybe this had all been a terrible idea. All day, the boy had plagued her like a fever. Her body swayed between nervous alarm and nauseous happiness. She could be in the middle of a flawless rendition of a piece she’d known for years, suddenly feel the touch of his hand against hers like she was right there again, and miss the next note a millisecond late.

Her wrist was a hot, swollen pink to prove it.

Maybe she shouldn’t have told him to come back. But, when she considered that, a sad, sick feeling swelled up like bile in her throat, and she reminded herself reassuringly that there was nothing that could be done about it now, anyway.

So, maybe a little bit better, she began again. Counted out the metronome in her head, trapped in her ears, a steady beat with steady hands to match. It’s going much better now.

A shadow catches the corner of her eye and her head snaps sharply, silently to the door, heart missing beats -- Armin? Armin? -- but it’s just a mother and her two young sons. Father murmurs, “Continue.” in a somewhat-warning tone, and wanders toward the family with a smooth, polite greeting, asking if they need any assistance.

Determinedly, she keeps her head down, keeps time, and keeps playing Nocturne softly.

The woman sounds stuffy and exhausted -- no doubt from her two young boys -- and began asking about a good beginner piano and if they offered lessons. Mom distracted, the boys began scurrying through the shop, slamming keys and giggling freely.

For a moment, Annie thinks she sees someone else appear at the door, but they were gone too quickly for her to tell. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had seen the wild children and opted to keep walking. Normally, Father would have asked the parent to contain their offspring, but… From the sound of it, a purchase was a real possibility.

“What about her? She plays well. Does she do lessons?”

“My daughter is not yet qualified to do so, unfortunately. I can, however, recommend you to…”

To her scorching, roiling pleasure, she didn’t miss a single note.

The ordeal lasted maybe half an hour. Annie mulled through the other Nocturnes she had memorized, trying hard not to be too distracted by the squealing of the adventurous pair. It was honestly difficult, but he knew that’s why he was making her play. He was testing her. There was always a test to be accomplished. Failed.

She scarcely realized the transaction had finished when she heard the door open with a jingle, and half-zoned out, jolted to see if it was Armin, and then winced in surprise when a sharp snap came down on her hand.

“There were several mistakes,” Father’s low voice rumbled authoritatively. Annie stared straight ahead at the sheet music, unwilling to look at him.

“I know.”

“You will not repeat these mistakes next time. Your attention should be only on the instrument, the music. What I am doing and what others are doing are of no concern to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed, a sound she was almost desensitized to (hadn’t he heard the phrase, ‘every time you sigh, a little bit of your happiness escapes?’) and he began undoing his work apron. Guess it was lunch break. Her stomach turned a little at the thought of food, but her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of not being here if Armin came by, and…

“I’ll stay here.”

It wasn’t a particularly odd request. But, naturally, he replied with a curt, “Yes. And you will get it right this time.”

That was the end of the conversation.

When she was sure he was gone, door closed tight behind him, she allowed herself one brief moment to grab the Chopin booklet off the stand and hurl it violently at the wall with an animal noise.

\---

That was the man, wasn’t it? Tall, stern-browed, an unyielding blue-grey gaze; blonde with an almost militant haircut. His broad shoulders moved tightly as he crossed the brick roads, and his golden watch glinted in the afternoon sunlight… And, he had come out from _Gendermery_.

Armin hurriedly peeked inside the window again but couldn’t see anything from the glare. He swallowed, tightened the paper bag in his grip, and slipped inside the shop with a tiny ring of the bell.

Nervous with anticipation, he put on what he hoped was a friendly-looking smile, and waited to see if Annie would kick him out.

He expected to see her playing. She had been for some time, but guessed maybe she got a break when her dad left. He expected to see her behind the counter then, maybe, checking the register. Or even cleaning.

However, Annie, looking much the same as she had yesterday, was bending over by the wall to pick up a damaged-looking sheetbook.

“Er… Annie?”

Nothing changed in her demeanor as she rose, in no hurry at all. In fact, when their eyes met and he felt warmth spread through him like vines, she looked positively bored.

“Oh. Hello, Armin.”

He was certain then that his smile did not come across as amicably as he’d hoped. In fact, unfortunately, it felt like it had frozen into a petrified grin.

“I-is… this a good time?” he managed to get out. Annie strode across the room like a wraith, and placed the book back at her piano -- well, the one she played at. Why was the book on the floor, though? And on the other side of the room in a heap?

“Yeah, you’re safe. My father actually just went to lunch.”

Relief. She wasn’t making eye contact with him anymore -- just staring at the reflective surface of the grand piano -- but she didn’t seem angry at least.

“Well, uh, speaking of lunch… I happened to get some, and if you’re hungry, you can have this?” He held up the crinkled bag, unnatural smile still in place, and prayed he wasn’t being overly-friendly in his offer. “It’s just a panini. It’s okay if you don’t, it was just an extra, I--”

“Sure,” she said.

Wait, what?

“Okay, great! Where can we…?”

“The floor.”

Her voice was totally blank. Honestly, if she weren’t so intimidating, he would find it funny. He’d met stoic people before, of course -- Mikasa was at the top of the list -- but even Mikasa didn’t seem to try so hard to… well… seem it. 

In silence, Annie went back behind the counter and procured some paper towels, a thermos, and two styrofoam cups. Armin awkwardly sat cross-legged on the carpet, and she handed him a cup and napkin before following suit, folding her knees underneath her and tucking back a loose strand of hair.

Truthfully, Armin was on cloud nine with total relief. Leaving the house, he was so eager he had completely forgotten about eating, and by the time he made it downtown on his bike, he was starving. He stopped by his favorite deli to remedy his hunger, and had an epiphany. There had been an uncomfortable moment where he stood in silence, and the cashier looked at him like maybe he’d fallen off his bike on the way there, but Armin quickly asked for two of his usual press before he could change his mind.

He was thankful Annie hadn’t asked about his perfect timing. He wasn’t sure he was a good enough liar to convince her that he hadn’t been waiting nearby for nearly twenty minutes for her father to leave (and his courage to reappear).

“So, um, how has your day been so far?” He asked between bites. Annie seemed off. Not that he knew her well enough to rationally _know_ , but his intuition seemed to think so.

Chewing slowly, thoughtfully, Annie still didn’t seem to want to make eye contact with him. After she swallowed, she answered, “Fine.” ...And that was it.

Doubts began creeping into Armin’s thoughts with more veracity than he’d like. In an effort to not let their visit fall apart before it even began, he went on, “I was surprised that you weren’t playing when I came in. I didn’t see any customers, and you seem like the type to practice all day long. Ah! So, why was that booklet on the floor?”

Annie stopped eating. She looked up, right into his eyes, and he sort of felt like he’d been nailed to the wall several feet behind him. The sheer intensity was unbelievable, and apologies rose and died in his throat in its wake. 

And then, just like that, she glanced away. Her expression visibly softened, and she rolled her neck, stretching her tense shoulders, before saying, “This is really good.”

The… panini? Armin felt his eyes go wide, and finally, his smile cracked out of its frozen shell and felt real.

“Yeah, isn’t it? It’s one of my favourites. There’s a little soup and sandwich place down the road my grandfather takes me to sometimes.”

“Cool. Where is it?”

“Oh, it’s uh… Between the wine cellar and that cafe with the book cart outside. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been. Maybe I’ll go sometime.”

Armin beamed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

And he was.

They finished their food in a much more companionable silence. Annie took a moment to pour a steamy liquid into their cups, which she explained was just a black tea she made if she had time to in the morning, and Armin was quite taken with it.

When he thanked her, a very strange look came across her face, and he would’ve thought he’d offended her if it weren’t for the rosy flush that he thought he saw color her cheeks.

He helped her clean up, and in time she was back at the piano.

“What have you played today?” he asked pleasantly, fingering the pliant cup in his hands. He rolled up his sweater sleeves, feeling too warm.

“The usual. Chopin. Some Ravel earlier this morning.”

“Ah, Ravel is difficult, isn’t he? Hmm… Annie, can you play anything happy?” It was only half-joking, but to his surprise, her lip twitched up in the corner and she rolled her eyes.

Annie, too, pressed up the sleeves of her hoodie to her elbows, stretched her hands out, and began pouring across the notes.

Again, he was swept away by a strong familiarity, and a burning appreciation of her technical prowess. She played so easily, every chord progression felt like second-nature. And this piece, he knew it, he swore he did -- it was actually uplifting. In fact...

\--it was lovely, light, lilting.  
It sounds like a French summer, the sort where the sky is a perfect blue, and each bird is full of quiet, soaring song.   
And you are wandering in a garden, towards the center of it, which is filled by a beautiful pond -- a marsh -- full of cattails  
and lilypads, where the water is surely warm.  
Because the sunshine is warm, and the breeze is sweet.  
And every idle passerby is content, too,   
to cross the wooden bridge by you.  
You’re certain this is all a Monet painting, down to the clouds reflecting in the water.  
And you don’t want to leave.  
You want to stay here; there’s someone coming, isn’t there?  
You’re waiting for someone. Someone important.  
You mustn’t go yet.  
It is too beautiful a day.

When the last notes are fading out, Armin feels like he’s been woken from a dream. There’s a few seconds where his tired consciousness thinks about going back to sleep, to finish it, because he needs to know who it was, but he slips back to reality with a sheepish look.

“Wow,” he whispered.

And to his delight, Annie almost looks pleased.

“Happy enough for you?” she quipped. Her tone naturally came across as harsh, but Armin knew it was her take on a joke.

“Perfect. Wow. I love that when you play it, it feels like I’m being taken somewhere. It’s easy to get lost in your music. You’re such a wonderful pianist--!”

“It’s not my music, Armin, and I’m not a pianist.”

His enthusiasm dies down at her stinging words, but it doesn’t stop him from giving her a long, tender look and a much softer smile.

“It’s perfect,” he repeats, and this time, she doesn’t fight him. Her eyes widen infinitesimally and her lips almost part, but she quickly looks away and glosses over, “It, um, reminds me of the lake I played at as a child. It was my grandfather’s farm, and out back there was a huge lake we’d swim in during the summer.”

Armin felt his heart swell up, and tentatively moved closed to the piano bench, wondering if she’d let him sit down.

“Do you still visit? It sounds really fun.” 

“No.”

It was a single, hard word. She was sitting, a little hunched, with her arms hanging loosely between her outstretched legs, and gazing distantly at the piano keys. It seemed like she was covered in barbed wire.

Armin said, “Ah.” It felt weak, empty, but didn’t know what else to say. So he went on. “I live with my grandfather, actually. I’ve lived with him since I was quite little. I barely remember my parents.”

Annie looked up, curious and perhaps a touch concerned. “Why?”

“They died when I was young. Only three or four. It was an accident, nothing special.”

“I’m sorry,” Annie said, and Armin smiled softly.

“Don’t worry about it. I love my grandfather very much, and I’m happy with him. It was a little worrying when Nanna passed away… I didn’t know how grandfather would handle it… but we’ve both been all right. I don’t think I could ask for more.”

The conversation ebbed after that. It wasn’t that the topic was completely depressing -- Armin meant it, he truly was happy, and felt terribly blessed to have the family and friends and life that he had -- but the longer he looked at Annie, the more it appeared that his words were settling somewhere deep. Her expression was muddled, both sympathetic and contemplative and faraway.

Unsure of how to approach things now, and desperately looking for a way to patch it up, Armin scanned the room for anything to talk about. But, again, unexpectedly, Annie spoke up.

“Would you like to sit?”

Armin blinked. 

“Sure.”

She scooted over enough to give him space, and Armin gingerly made his way to the seat. When he sat, he felt the warmth of her body heat, and as he placed his hands down to adjust, her fingers brushed his for the second time.

Again, unprepared, he involuntarily started at the immediate current that went through him and back again. His heart fumbled and quickened to catch up, his throat caught, and he forgot to breathe.

“S-sorry,” he croaked out.

Annie made no attempt to reply.

“...I, could, um… Teach you to play, if you’d like,” she said somewhat nervously. “If you want to learn a little. From me. That is.”

He must have looked very stupid. In fact, he knew he did. Because Annie was looking into his eyes, a little pink, a little flustered -- and in their reflection, he could see his dumbfounded expression. She was so close to him, he realized passingly. Only a few inches from his face. He could feel her breath against his lips, and for one long, agonizing moment, he understood that he could lean down and kiss her.

“I would like that,” Armin mumbled. His gaze flickered to her mouth and back. “Very much.”

For some reason, she wasn’t drawing away from him.

“Okay,” she whispered in reply. “I can do that.”

And Armin wondered if they were even talking about piano anymore.

A faint noise came from outside, immediately followed by the ring of the bell and the slight whisk of the shop door opening.

All color drained from Armin’s face, and in nothing less than a microsecond, Annie balked to attention and the room felt like it dropped ten degrees. She had moved miles away from him on the bench somehow, and was giving the keys a detached stare.

“And that is why this model has been used extensively, with little changes made to the model that weren’t aesthetic.”

Her eyes flickered up to his, speaking clearly: _play along_. Armin fumbled for words until her glare intensified, urging him to reply, and he finally sputtered, “O-oh. Interesting! Very interesting. That is, uh, good to know. Well, thank you for your time, m-my professor will be glad to hear it.” He bowed his head too many times, fake smile plastered on his paled face. “Thank you again. This will really help out my research paper. S-sorry for troubling you!”

“It was no trouble at all,” Annie replied, and though her voice was impassive, her sky-coloured eyes shone with restrained emotion.

Her father seemed to accept the conversational topic, and strode by them to return to the counter. Annie glanced behind her, and visibly untensed as she saw him slip into the back room.

“Sorry, I-I wasn’t paying attention to the time. Um, if you still want, can you come back in two days?” Her voice was rushed, on-edge, and she kept glancing back to see if he was coming out.

It wasn’t even a question.

“Of course,” Armin answered sharply. “Of _course_. I’m really sorry, Annie. I had a wonderful time. You’re really amazing. I--...” His sentence trailed off as he stared at her.

She smiled. A real, genuine smile -- chaste and minute.

“Thank you for coming. I have to go.”

And Armin, head-over-heels, tongue-tied and with a newfound loss for words, numbly walked out of the shop with a dazed wave and a stammer of, “B… Bye, Annie.”

\---

At first he biked slowly.

Then, he made it home in record time.


End file.
